A Crank Between Buddies
by Burnedtoasty
Summary: Fred Dukes has a problem.


**Title**: A Crank Between Buddies (I won't if you don't)  
**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, manner, or form, own Wolverine: Origins, X-Men, the Marvel universe, or the characters said universe/franchise contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Marvel and Fox. No infringement intended.  
_**Fandom**: Marvel  
**Continuity**: _X-Men Origins: Wolverine_, movie-verse  
**Characters**: Fred Dukes/The Blob, John Wraith/Kestrel  
**Warnings**: Wanking jokes, language  
**Summary**: Dukes has a bit of a problem.  
**Author's** **Note**: I'm so, so sorry. D:

Edit: Fixed some typos, de-wonkified a few sentences. Apologies.

--

"John. John, I got a problem."

Wraith snuffled, burrowing his face back into the crook of his arm, chin banging against the cool surface of his desk. His back was killing him, every muscle stretched into uncomfortable tightness, his spine feeling crooked and cramped and nearly cracking with every breath, but _goddamn_ if that had not been the best fifteen minute bout of sleep he'd had all week. No nightmares, no jolting awake finding himself teleported onto the roof or back in the closet. Just a restful, spine-killing, good old fashioned snooze.

Damn him and every charitable urge he'd ever had, he was going to murder Dukes. Cold-blooded. Just him and a piano wire and the lot out back. Goddamn.

"What?" John groaned, palming his sunglasses off his face and tipping his hat out of the way. Fred—Fred looked oddly uncertain, for once sporting no drink or grease-dipped artery-stopping confection. The mountain of a man shuffled from one overburdened foot to the other, floorboards creaking ominously under the strain.

Fred spread both hands, presenting his palms as if every answer could be found in their creases. "I got a _problem,_" he reiterated, stressing the word like it wasn't vague enough a statement the first time around.

John squinted, having half a mind to just tell Dukes to get the hell out and let him kill his posture quietly. His eyes darted up and down, seeking an end to the discussion and the chance at a decent nape that, so far, had eluded him. "Just what kind of—oh. Uh," Wraith sucked in a breath, rocking back in his seat. _That_ kind of problem.

"I can't reach it."

"No. Hell no."

"But _I can't reach,_" Fred said, half-heartedly waving a hand toward the awkward lump in his shorts. "I won't tell nobody if you don't."

"No, Fred, _no_. Call—call that girl, Vanessa, Carla, whatever her name is, no, no, and no," Wraith sputtered, looking every which way but directly in front of him. They were friends—well, old associates, at least, and that bred a certain kind of loyalty, sharing what horror stories they did, but, _no_. There were limits, and that was too far beyond professional courtesy to even be—no.

"I ain't got a girl. That's what started me up. See, I was thinking about—"

"I don't want to know. I really don't want to know. Jesus. I thought I was done with this kind of shit with Wade gone."

"But I can't reach it. And I already been ignoring it before. C'mon, John, be a friend," Fred took a lumbering step forward. Wraith shot up out of his chair, retreating a full three, until he was nearly against the wall.

"This is just sad, man. You need to lose some weight, butterball," Wraith snorted, staving off his profound horror at the very idea germinating in Fred's brain. "Isn't healthy to be, well. Like that. Bad enough you can't bathe yourself, but I'm not wanking you off."

Fred paused, brow line descending like angry storm clouds on the horizon. "…Did you just call me a butterball?"

"What if I did?" Wraith folded his arms, one eyebrow quirking up, independent of its twin. "What're you gonna do about it? You couldn't touch me on your best day, and you're huge, Fred. It just ain't _right_."

Indignant in his stretched shorts and whatever sheet that called itself a shirt, Fred drew himself fully upright, puffing up his chest in what, in another life, would have been an intimidating swell. His nostrils flared. "I can lose it. I can lose it whenever I want to."

"Bullshit."

"Don't you be calling me a liar, John," Fred rumbled, deep and low. "I can be fighting trim, less than a week. I just put on a few, that's all."

"Bull. Shit. A few? Really, Fred? _I've_ put on a 'few'. Stop living in denial, man. You got an eating disorder."

"I don't puke," Fred replied, slow and reasonable despite being not quite certain what argument was to be made.

Wraith considered, for a long moment, simply teleporting outside, getting on his bike, and leaving. But then his eyes met Fred's, and all that shit they did came rushing back, and his shoulders slumped. He wasn't going anywhere. "Alright, then, Fred. We'll make a deal. You train up, get slimmed down, and I won't be callin' you a butterball or a bold-faced liar."

"Fine, just you wait and see," Fred sucked in a breath, anger melting away. "You're a good friend, John. But, uh, first…" He pointed down.

"Oh, Jesus…"

"I won't tell nobody if you don't."


End file.
